


The Jealous Type

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry wanking, Fic within a Fic, Jealous John, Multi, Post-Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, fictional marylock, hate reading, obviously, slots into canon, trash!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 11:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9070126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: John hate-reads marylock. Jealousy ensues.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the month between The Sign of Three and His Last Vow.
> 
>  **Some warnings:** The marylock depicted in this work is for the sole literary purpose of tormenting John Watson.
> 
> If you ship marylock, you will not enjoy this fic (although I suppose you could copy & paste the italicized bits into a separate word doc if you're _really_ hard up for some fic).
> 
> If you ship warstan, you will not enjoy this fic.
> 
> If you ship johnlock, you will not enjoy this fic, **unless** you enjoy seeing John seething in a trashy jealous rage, in which case hooray! THIS FIC IS FOR YOU!
> 
> Basically, my target audience is masochists. You're welcome.

_  
_

_  
_

_...a near electric charge as their eyes met. “He doesn't have to know.”_  

_Sherlock snorted derisively. “Of course he doesn't, he's completely oblivious.” He took a step closer. “Not clever like you, Mary.”_

John’s blood boils hot and quick in his veins, but he keeps his breathing slow and steady.

_She smiled, sly and tempting. “He used to talk about you, you know. Constantly. I always wondered what all the fuss was about.” She ran a finger up his lapel, following the sleek long line of his body. “Now I see.”_

Complete fiction. Just garbage somebody with way too much time and internet access dreamt up to satisfy some sick, twisted hero worship fantasy. 

_He stared into her eyes, his cool, calculating gaze flaring white hot with desire. “You have no idea how satisfying it is to have finally found an equal.”_

Still, hitting a bit too close to home. John shifts in his chair, trying not to clench his fists.

_Her fingertips brushed his sharp cheekbone. “Oh, I think I have some idea.” Their mouths were on each other, hair fisted and bodies flush, before either knew what they were doing._

John's nails dig painfully into his palms, but he barely registers it over the roaring in his ears.

_Their bodies fit together like they were made for each other, hard muscle against soft curves, legs slotting and arms wrapping and tongues melding in perfect union. It felt like coming home._

John slams the laptop shut, catching the corner of his thumb between keyboard and screen. “Fuck!” He shakes his hand violently, then brings his thumb to his mouth on instinct. He's vaguely aware that he's panting, and again tries to regulate his breath. This is nonsense, just what the hell was he thinking, reading this… this _trash_.

He hadn't been thinking, really. He'd just clicked on the link, spurred by curiosity and yes, a bit of reckless defiance. It had started innocently enough, an email alert notifying him of a new comment on his blog. He had been pleasantly surprised, given that he hadn't updated his blog since the wedding (technically _before_ the wedding, since Sherlock had actually written up that post). He deflated slightly when he saw it was from theimprobableone. For some reason, that guy always brought out the worst in him.

_might not want to post photos of your beautiful bride on your public blog_

John had frowned at the threatening undercurrent to the message. The implications were unsettling.

_Why not?_

He didn't have to wait long for a reply; seconds later a private message appeared in his inbox.

_thought it best not to post this directly to your blog, in case the author sees. seems your wedding album garnered attention from one of your more **passionate** followers, though clearly their interests lie with the more photogenic couple. can't really blame them, they do make quite the striking pair._

And then the link.

That damned link.

John had recognised the site; he knew what he would find. He clicked anyway.

He hadn't been on the fan fiction archive for years, and was mildly surprised to see the same abstract squiggle of a logo cheerily informing him of adult content and asking if he wanted to proceed. With a twinge of trepidation, he clicked the button.

He was first accosted by a full-sized embedded photo of Sherlock and Mary from the wedding, seamlessly altered to appear as if they were the happy couple, beaming at the camera in apparent marital bliss. John was conspicuously absent.

He had blinked at the screen, taken aback. There hadn’t been images on the archive last he’d been on, as far as he could recall. Then again, that was ages ago, another lifetime ( _literally a past life_ , he thought wryly). He shoved the thought down, and scanned the tags.

 _ Sherlock Holmes/Mary Morstan _ _, Sherlock Holmes, Mary Morstan, fix-it fic, Freeform: Fix-It, Freeform: Marylock, First Kiss, First Time, Declarations of Love, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, True Love, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, No Mary Morstan/John Watson, NO JOHN WATSON I PROMISE!!!, only background mention, these two were made for each other, just look at the photos, you can tell, My OTP, marylock 5eva!!!_

Well. That was par for the course on this site; he’d seen much worse during his brief foray into the world of fanfic, at the height of Sherlock’s public popularity. Then again, it had almost entirely been about him and Sherlock, with a handful about the author and Sherlock. Not that he could fault them that. Sherlock was this larger-than-life figure, in manner and in form, of course people would be drawn to him. He was magnetic. 

Another message alert.

_i advise you not to read it, if you’re the jealous type. there are some things you can’t unsee._

And, well, that did it. As if he, a doctor and a war vet, couldn’t separate fantasy from reality. As if he had to be shielded from the deluded ramblings of a sex-crazed fan. He’d quickly scrolled past the photo (captioned: _There, I fixed it!!!_ ) and tried not to think of the time that must have been spent to make the image look so real.

Rationally, he knows that people are going to write about Sherlock, it’s unavoidable. Hell, writing about Sherlock is the only reason he’s still got a blog. He understands the appeal. But they don't have to drag Mary into this. It's rude. It's offensive. It's a violation of their privacy, for Christ’s sake, not to mention the sanctity of their marriage.

And yet here he is, reading smut about his wife and his best friend. Or, rather pointedly, not reading it. Anymore. Definitely not reading it.

John stares at the logo on the back of the laptop, its LED light pulsing in time with his slowing breath. It's calming and strangely hypnotic, slowing his thoughts as well. He's being ridiculous. This is pure fancy, nothing to get worked up about. It's a bit like a sociological study, delving into the unbalanced mind of an obsessed fan. A thought experiment. He almost owes it to Sherlock—and Mary—to see just how far this thing goes, the depths of this unhealthy obsession. For all he knows, the author might become so fixated on Sherlock— _and Mary, mustn't forget Mary_ —that they try something in person. John Lennon was shot by a deranged fan, after all. In a way, he has a moral imperative to keep reading. For research. How else can he protect Sherlock against the potential threat if he doesn't see this through to the end?

He inhales deeply through his nose, and cracks open the laptop again.

_“M-Mary,” Sherlock gasped, breaking the kiss to lick the tender skin of her throat, following her arching neck with his tongue all the way to her ear. “Mmmm,” he rumbled. “You taste amazing.” He lapped at her earlobe. “I want to devour every inch of you.”_

_The vibrations of his velvety baritone travelled down her spine to pool heat in her groin. How would those low purrs of pleasure feel pressed against her clit? She ached to find out._

Christ. John shifts in his chair again, and not entirely out of barely suppressed anger. He tries to ignore the responding ache between his legs. He knows it’s Pavlovian. Nothing more than an ingrained response after repeated exposure to a known stimulus. He’s not sure whether the stimulus in question is Sherlock’s voice itself or the written description of that voice, stirring up memories of the last time he explored this site, but it hardly matters at this point. The result is the same.

_“I want that wicked tongue of yours absolutely everywhere,” she panted, the last word breaking into a moan as Sherlock traced the shell of her ear with the sinful appendage in question, swirling his way into the centre. “Fuck!” she cried, and bucked against the firm, muscular thigh between her legs._

John knows those thighs (bouncing with nervous energy in cabs—stretched out in front of the fire—splayed open and waiting and John’s hand was _right there…_ ) and he knows how it feels to have Mary rub herself against him, just like that, desperate for something hard between her legs. But then, given the scenario, who wouldn't be?

Unbidden, John’s mind flashes to a long-suppressed-but-not-forgotten image of his legs slotted with Sherlock’s, thrusting his denim-clad erection against the wool wrapped steel of Sherlock’s thigh. He hasn't indulged in that fantasy since before… _Before_. Now snippets of a story float back to him—well, quite a few stories stitched together—fragments of the thousands of words he had read in the tag _Sherlock Holmes/John Watson_ all those years ago.

_...he could feel the outline of his cock...pushed him up against the wall... Frottage…_

No. He grips the side of the laptop, squeezing his toes into tight little curls in his shoes. Not that. Not ever again. He has Mary now. He has no reason to imagine… that.

He turns his attention back to the screen. He can just focus on Mary.

_Sherlock slid his hands down to grip her arse, imposing a steady rhythm over her frantic thrusts, pulling her ever closer. When the hard length of his cock brushed her hip, she whined, high and needy, and rutted against him harder._

_“Fuck, Sherlock, I want you so badly right now, want you inside of me.”_

_His hands flew to her face, his thigh still moving under her in maddeningly persistent undulations. Long fingers cupped her face and opal fire eyes bore into her own as he continued to rock against her._

_“I've never wanted **anyone** the way I want you.”_

The back of John’s neck prickles with sweat, and his teeth ache. He realises his jaw is steel trap tight, but even with conscious intent, he's unable to pry his molars apart. He settles for a slow grinding back and forth, trying to loosen the death lock. His furious erection is pressing painfully into his zip, but he's afraid to even adjust himself with the myriad of disturbing thoughts and emotions roiling within him. _Don't want to accidentally cross any wires, but goddamn, that's bloody uncomfortable_. He squeezes his eyes shut, bites the inside of his cheek, _hard_ , and quickly unbuttons the top of his flies, relieving some of the pressure. Enough to continue. Because now that he's decided, John Watson is seeing this through to the bitter end.

_Mary gasped—was that sentiment coming from the great detective’s beautiful lips? He slid a large thumb over her own parted lips, as if to capture her surprise, and she couldn't help sucking it into the wet heat of her mouth. His eyes rolled back and he let out a guttural groan that Mary could feel in her toes. She watched in awe, overwhelmed by the power she had over this man—this brilliant, untouchable, remote genius—to make him feel. To see him succumb to the pleasures of his body, because of her and her alone._

John pounds his fist into his thigh three times, the metallic tang of blood springing to his tongue as his teeth finally break the skin, but he reads on.

_She tongued the pad of his thumb while her hands roamed, one following that long stretch of pale neck up to tangle in dark curls, the other travelling down the flat planes of his chest and stomach, until finally—finally!—her fingers wrapped around his cock. Sherlock’s entire body spasmed, a jolt from a live wire, then he froze, clutching tight at her head._

_“Stop!” It was a dry, ragged cry, a plea for mercy, and she immediately stilled. The room was silent save for his hoarse gulps of air. His eyes were wrenched shut, features twisted in frustration verging on agony. “Sorry… sorry,” he whispered, and loosened his hold on her face. She stroked his hair, slow and soothing._

_“Are you okay?”_

_He nodded, eyes still screwed tight, and blew out a deep breath._

_“I’m just… I’m not used to…” He dropped a hand to gesture vaguely between them. “...this. I’m too close.”_

_“Oh!” It came out more shocked than she’d intended, and he winced. “Oh, don’t worry, we can take it slow.”_

_“I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m not like John, I don’t know what I’m doing.”_

_She snorted. “For someone so observant, you assume an awful lot.”_

“Oi!” John can’t help his indignation. Who the buggering fuck does this—he scrolls up— ‘DickWaters’ think he is? _She_ , he corrects, most likely, given what he knows about the fan fiction world. Probably a bored housewife who’s projecting her own unhappy marriage onto his. Just because _her_ husband can’t satisfy her needs doesn’t mean that he’s lacking in that department. The nerve. He scrolls back down.

_Sherlock chuckled, despite himself. “True, otherwise you wouldn’t be here with me.”_

_She shook her head. “I’m here because I haven’t been able stop thinking about you since the day we met. I’m here because I feel like I’ve finally found someone who actually sees me, without any masks or illusions. I’m here because, for the first time in my life, there is someone who understands me, and accepts me for who I really am. I am here for **you** , Sherlock. I am not here for your sexual prowess.”_ 

_His eyes had gone a bit misty, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. “That’s… that’s good.” He swallowed. “Because I… that is to say…”_

_Mary ran a reassuring hand over his cheek. “It’s all right, love. We all have dry spells. When was the last time you had sex?”_

_“Never,” he whispered._

No. Just no.

John scrolls back up, he could’ve sworn he checked the tags… yep, no tag for _Virgin Sherlock_. Goddamnit. He wouldn’t have even started down this path if he’d have known. Well, maybe he would have anyway, but at least he’d have had some advanced fucking warning. He’s about to click the comments button and leave a nasty note about tagging etiquette 101 when a stray cogent thought breaks through the red haze. If he leaves any comments on this fic now, theimprobableone will know it was him, and he’ll never hear the end of it. That bastard already trolls his blog religiously. He really can’t afford to give him more wank fodder.

He forces himself to take a deep breath, and consider his options. He can just back arrow out. He doesn’t have to continue. It’s pretty clear where this trash piece of shit premise is leading, and there’s no need to expose himself to that particular circle of hell.

 _there are some things you can’t unsee._  

Sonofabitch. He grits his teeth at the thought of that faceless arsehole sitting behind his cosy anonymity with a shit-eating grin, reading this filth, picturing _his_ wife and _his_ Sherlock… it’s not bloody fair. If he doesn’t read the whole thing, he’ll have to face thinly-veiled taunts, prodding at his blind spots, teasing at his ignorance. He has to know.

He shakes out the tension in his hand, furling and unfurling his fingers until they’re loose enough to manipulate the controls again and scroll down to where he left off.

_“Oh, Sherlock.” She had wondered; none of John’s stories ever mentioned a girlfriend, always so focussed on the cases, and she’d never been able to get any personal details out of him. But never? Sherlock was so striking, physically alluring and intellectually stimulating. And god, the form-fitting suits he wore, tailored within an inch of their lives. It seemed unbelievable that a man so attractive and clearly tactile had never been physically intimate with another person._

_She could feel him shrinking away from her, receding in embarrassment, and she acted quickly, pulling him back into a desperate kiss. When she finally released him, he blinked back at her, dazed._

_“So… my lack of experience is not a problem?”_

_“God no.” Mary rubbed against him again, spreading the wet spot she’d made further up his trousers. “Actually, it’s quite hot.” She teased her fingers over his flies, careful not to make full contact. “Being your first.”_

John’s fist makes contact with the sofa cushion, repeatedly. This is not how it’s supposed to go. He knows; he’s read countless iterations, and this bloody well isn’t it. She doesn’t fucking deserve it, she hasn’t earned the right. He reminds himself yet again that this is a work of fiction, but it does little to quell the black bile rising in his throat.

_He let out a little whimper, and she grinned. “Shall we take this to the bedroom?”_

_Sherlock nodded, that quick wit stunned into silence for once. She took his hand and led the way, despite it being his own flat. His foot caught on the door frame, and he stumbled into his bedroom. Laughing, she caught him mid-fall and spun him around, toppling him back on the bed. Sherlock clutched at her, taking her with him, and she found herself suddenly on top of him, straddling his thighs. She looked down at him, sprawled out on the bed, and her laughter caught in her throat._

_He was spread out below her like a present, begging to be unwrapped. He'd already started the job with those first two buttons on that obscenely tight white shirt. Her eyes flicked down and yes—she could see two pink nipples peaking up through the thin fabric, which puckered under the strain. No wonder he always wore his suit jacket with this shirt, it was positively indecent. She ran her thumb over a nipple, and he arched off the bed, moaning like a wanton whore. **How** had this man never had sex? He was pure sex incarnate. He tossed his head on the pillow, inky curls stark against cream, and bit at those lush lips, and Mary thought she could come at just the sight._  

Jesus Fucking Christ. John can't remember the last time he was this hard. Certainly before Mary. Before Sherlock di— left then, too. He viscerally flashes back to sitting on his bed, laptop by his side, furiously wanking while his (gorgeous infuriating _irresistible_ ) flatmate lay just one floor beneath him. Yep, that would've been it.

It's Pavlovian, he repeats like a mantra. He had been reading a story not dissimilar to this one, except he had been the one with Sherlock spread out for his hungry eyes to caress as he writhed and begged for John to fuck him. Of course the same imagery is going to stir up similar feelings, despite the situation being fucking horrific in nature. It's crossed wires, that's all.

Stimulus and response.

And God, had he built up that response. The number of times he must've come to the thought of deflowering his untouchable flatmate… nope, now is not the time to relive those memories, not when his cock already feels like it might burst. His arousal does nothing to temper his fury; if anything, it just makes his heated blood pump harder, the warring forces playing off each other, ramping both up to unbearable heights. His head throbs and his pulse thunders and his balls ache with tension. The constraints on his erection are verging on painful, and he's frankly impressed that he's able to maintain such an exemplary hard-on under the circumstances. Must be all that blood incessantly pounding through his veins.

He tears open his zip before he can think about it too hard, and sighs in relief as his cock finally springs free, the head spearing through the slit of his pants. He’s not going to touch it, hell, he won’t even _look_ at it, he just needs to let it air out, breathe a bit, give it a chance to calm. Maybe without the constant pressure down there, that needy ache will recede. It was probably just the excessive constriction that was aggravating the situation, pushing these conflicting responses towards the wrong outcome. Now that he’s free from those confines, he can clear his head—both heads—and get through this bloody thing.

_“God, you’re gorgeous.” She let her hands trail down his chest, undoing buttons as she went. He pressed up into her touch, desperate for contact. “Mmm, and so responsive.” When she reached the bottom of his shirt, she continued on to his flies, unfastening the catch with practised ease. She paused at the zip. “Is this all right? I don’t want to move too fast.”_

_When Sherlock didn’t reply, she looked up to see his eyes closed tight, hands fisted in his hair, lips pinched into a thin white line. Shit._

_“Sherlock?” She ran her hands over his thighs, slow and soothing. “It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t—”_

_“No!” His eyes flew open, blazing with heat. “I do, I do want!” His voice was ragged, the words torn from his throat. “God, I want, so much, you have no idea.” He was panting, rasping, his eyes feverish and wild. “Please, Mary, I want… I want…”_

_She stroked up his thighs again, thumbs circling his hips. “Shh… it’s all right, love. What do you want?”_

I want you to stop fucking calling him love, you unworthy two-faced…nope. Stop. Not real. Not actually Mary. Just breathe.

_Sherlock scrubbed at his scalp, ruffling those ridiculous curls into a mad halo. “I… I don’t know.” His face was contorted in frustrated anguish. Mary knew how much it cost him to utter those words, and took pity._

_“We can do whatever you want, Sherlock. I know it’s hard for you right now, I know it’s a lot, but you have to tell me if it’s too much, if there’s anything you don’t want to do.”_

_“No, there’s nothing, nothing I don’t want from you.” He locked his gaze on her, eyes wide and open and utterly guileless. “I want everything. Please.”_

God, those words. How long had he wanted to hear those words from that mouth. Years. Maybe a lifetime. It feels like that sometimes.

No, he reminds himself, a whole _other_ lifetime, that’s what it was. Now he has Mary, and that’s all in the past. And anyway, it never even happened, nothing ever happened outside the stories he read. It shouldn’t be possible to feel nostalgia for something that never was, and yet he does, somehow. Just another example of how the universe goes out of its way to screw over John Watson.

_His voice broke over the word, and something inside her broke too, hearing this brilliant, untouchable man so raw and vulnerable, pleading for her to give him pleasure._

_“Don't worry,” she cooed. “I'll take care of you.” She gently loosened the zip and pulled sleek wool trousers down trembling thighs. She shimmied down the bed to untangle his feet from pant legs and socks, then sat back on her heels to admire the view. Christ, what a view. Acres of long, muscular legs stretched on like the path to Mecca, leading her eye to the jutting tent of dark silk boxers. Her mouth watered, and she swallowed as she took in twitching abs and flushed chest and hard nipples, all framed by the parted white placket of his shirt. An obscene diorama for her eyes only._

Not her eyes, goddamnit, mine! He can see it perfectly: pale skin, barely a shade darker than that near-translucent shirt, mottled with blushing heat scattered like kisses over his collarbones and neck. He's seen that sculpted chest (and back… and arse…) framed by nothing more than a rumpled white sheet, and buggering _fuck,_ that's not the sort of thing he should be thinking about right now. He bites into his knuckle, the pain grounding him while providing the added benefit of occupying his dominant hand.

_Sherlock was gazing down at her through thick dark lashes and biting his lip, looking both unbearably seductive and impossibly young at once. **He** was impossible, this mad genius, this sultry virgin, this aloof passionate jaded naïve contradiction of a man, and she was somehow impossibly in his bed. She crawled up his body, bracketing hips and knees. Sherlock squirmed beneath her, and wasn't that marvelous. She dropped to her elbows, chin dipping between his thighs, and that silk-clad erection strained up to meet her. _

_“Eager,” she chuckled, the humid heat of her breath on his cock drawing a whimper from those beautiful lips. She huffed out another puff of hot air, heavy and purposeful, and grinned when a damp spot formed on the taut fabric. She could see the smooth curve of the head, fully defined, wet silk clinging to the crown. She licked her lips, then flicked her tongue out to caress just the tip. Sherlock jolted as if struck by lightning and keened, verging on supersonic in pitch._

An inhuman noise escapes John, and he has the flashing thought that he'd be mortified if anyone could hear him. A hind part of his combat-trained brain does a quick scan to reassure himself that he's completely alone. Of course he is. Mary’s out with her book club or knitting circle or something that she refers to as Girl’s Night though she's in her forties. She never makes it home before eleven, often out well past midnight, crawling into bed while John feigns sleep. He's got hours to himself, and good thing too, with his cock out and leaking like a bloody faucet.

He looks down to see pooling clear fluid, collected at the collar of his retracted foreskin, threatening to spill over. Before his eyes, another dribble slides down the head, disrupting the tenuous balance of surface tension and breaking free from his bobbing cock. He just manages to catch the fat drop of precome before it can reach the sofa. Mary will kill him if he stains the cushions. 

He sits there for a moment, hand cupped around the bunched up fabric at the base of his shaft, considering his options. He should probably move to the bedroom, but the thought of reading this in the bed they share, the bed that smells like her, feels wrong. He doesn't want this imagery associated with their bed for the rest of his life. Also, it's impractical at this point, with one hand slick with precome and the other trying to balance the laptop on his knee. He has no idea how he’d manoeuvre all this to another room, with his throbbing erection jutting out of pants.

He growls with frustration. Fine, he'll stick it out here. He leaves his hand where it is, in case there are any more spills. This is just for protection. It's not like he's going to touch himself or anything, god no. He can do this, no problem. He can keep it together through the end of this fic, then go take a shower. A very cold shower. And maybe bleach his brain while he's at it.

_Mary traced a path up the underside of his cock with her tongue, leaving a long wet stripe of silk in her wake. Sherlock shuddered violently, thighs vibrating off the bed with the force of it. She paused to look at him again, taking in the fisted sheets and bitten lips. Virgin, she reminded herself, never been touched like this. He was usually so cold and controlled. Repressed. Now that it was all coming to the surface, it was overwhelming him. If she wasn't careful, it would be over too soon. And there was so much she wanted to do. One thing was for sure: she wasn't going to let him come in his pants his first time out of the gate._

_“Let's get these off.” She lifted the elastic waistband and carefully peeled wet silk from delicate skin. Sherlock just watched, wide-eyed, as if afraid to so much as blink. The slow reveal of his flushed erection, dark pink and shiny and so full, was maddening and delicious in turns. At last she reached the dark thatch of hair at the base, and wriggled the boxers off quickly from there, tossing them in crumpled ball at the foot of the bed._

_“My god, Sherlock. You're…” She shook her head, at a loss for words. She met his eyes, and saw uncertainty, fear. His fingers twitched their grip on the sheets, fighting the urge to cover himself. She leaned over him, cupped a hand to his cheek. “...breathtaking. You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”_

A coppery rush floods John’s mouth, and some distant part of him registers it as blood, but it's fleeting, barely a wisp of a sensation. He screws his eyes shut tight and sucks air in through his nostrils so hard his sinuses pop. Sonuva buggering fuck. He shakes his head, clears his throat, blinks his eyes open, and continues.

_Mary brushed her lips over his, soft and tender, until she felt him relax again. She rubbed the tip of her nose against his and grinned. “Better?” He nodded, mouth curving up in a shy smile. “Good. Now, where were we?”_

_His smile shifted into a smirk. “I believe you were about to take my virtue, Miss Morstan.”_

_Mary chuckled, her playful expression turning wicked at the edges. “Oh, I very much doubt that. You may be inexperienced in certain areas, but I don’t believe for one moment that your virtue is intact.” She nipped at his earlobe, then whispered into his ear, “I think you’re full of all sorts of dark secrets just begging to be known.” She pushed his thick curls back to expose the skin behind his ear. “And I’m going to uncover them all.” She licked at the tender swath of skin, tasting salt and desire as Sherlock trembled beneath her. His hands flew to her hips of their own volition, and they both groaned as his grip brought them into alignment, his cock straining to reach her throbbing cunt. She had been so intent on his pleasure, she had almost forgot her own need, but now it spiked through her, harsh and unforgiving._

_“Fuck, Sherlock, I want—” His hands grappled for purchase without control or finesse, rucking her skirt up higher and pulling her down against his hard prick. “Yes! Yes, that, oh god, please, I need you, can I—can I have you?”_

_“I told you, Mary, I want everything from you. I’m all yours.”_

“Mine.” The word escapes John’s throat, a low guttural thing that sounds completely foreign to his own ears. Not yours, mine, he’s mine, goddamnit, mine. It plays on refrain, looping and layering through the miasma of jealousy that has become his conscious mind until he can’t see straight. His left hand flexes, and it’s only then that he notices it’s wrapped tight around his cock. When the hell did that happen? That newfound awareness cuts through the fog, bringing him back to the present reality: sofa, sitting room, laptop. Right. He loosens the death grip on his shaft, but another dribble of precome keeps his fingers in place, conveniently catching the excess. His palm is sweaty and slick from arousal, but he stifles the urge to slide his fist over his relentless erection. No. He's in control.

_She rose on unsteady legs, and despite the shifting mattress under her feet, she managed to remove her soaking wet knickers without toppling over. She looked down to see Sherlock gazing up at her with undisguised worship, as if she were some goddess or angel or saint, rather than a short, middle-aged woman with love handles and wrinkles and persistent dark circles under her eyes._

_“Your blouse,” he rasped, barely a whisper. “Can you… will you… take it off?” So sweet, so shy. So unassuming. So unlike the man he presented to the public, yet somehow so purely, achingly **him**. She spared him the slow reveal strip tease she had indulged with his buttons, instead removing her top with a practised flourish over her head, carelessly tossing it aside as she maintained eye contact with the man beneath her. His eyes raked over her newly exposed skin, and she felt the thrill of being seen, and wanted, for exactly what she was offering. Which was everything, really. Sherlock could have anything he wanted, every bit of her. She had given it to him long ago; it had always been up to him when to claim it._

_Now._

_It was now, with his eyes burning with need and hands outstretched to her, beckoning, begging she return. She lowered herself back to her knees, joints popping, though neither of them took notice. The air shimmered around them with heated potential, the anticipation and significance of the moment filling the room like some living thing borne of their attraction, desire finally actualised in full colour 3D stereophonic reality. This was really happening. At last._

No, not happening, not now, not ever. Not if John has anything to do with it, and he bloody well does because there is no way in hell his wife will ever touch Sherlock, he’ll make damn sure of that. No more friendly hugs, not even a handshake, nothing, not ever again.

_Tentatively, his hands found her sides, stroked up, traced the line of her bra strap. She arched her back, pressing into the touch. Clever roving fingertips skittered over lace, following the path to her breasts. She couldn't stifle the resulting moan, nor did she want to, especially when it was echoed in resonant baritone beneath her shaking thighs. God, that voice. It did things to her, stirred up something dark and wicked and absolutely ravenous._

_Mary planted her hands on the mattress, framing that stunning face in a cage of her limbs, and leaned in close._

_“I'm going to fuck you now, Mr. Holmes.”_

“Goddamnit!” John’s not sure when he began to swear out loud, but he’s certain that’s not the first expletive to burst out of him since he started this cursed fic. He can hear those words, ringing clear in Mary’s cool voice, that intense determination she gets sometimes that sends a chill down his spine.

_Sherlock’s breathy gasp of shock was almost satisfaction enough. Almost._

_Before he could regain his composure, she had a hand between them, guiding him into her slick hole._

_The effect was immediate and devastating._  

_His eyes flew wide, bugged out as if they might escape their sockets, and his mouth dropped open into a perfect rosebud “o”. His hands spasmed around her breasts, squeezing just this side of too much, rough and uncontrolled and exactly the pressure she needed to feel that instantaneous rush connecting nipples to clit._

_Her knees gave out and she sank down on his cock, sighing with relief as he filled her, so deep, so fucking good, Christ, where had he been all her life? When her clit hit his skin, she clenched her thighs and rocked against him, grinding, hard and needy. He let out a helpless little whimper and threw his head back, eyes shut and lips bitten raw. It was easily the most erotic thing she'd ever seen._

John’s hand is flying over his cock against his will, curses spilling from his lips, but he can’t stop. Fuck it. He’s beyond caring anymore, beyond guilt or shame or any shred of self-awareness. He is pure burning need, fuelled by blind lust and incandescent rage.

_“Do you like that?” she panted, not pausing in her undulations. Sherlock nodded frantically, another high-pitched noise coming from his tightly pressed lips. “I bet you do,” she chuckled. “So hungry for touch. So long denied. You're just desperate for someone to fuck you into the mattress, aren't you?”_

_Sherlock grabbed her hips and held her in place, purposefully meeting her gaze again._

_“Not someone. **You.** ” _

_“Sherlock.” She saw the reverence and awe she felt reflected back in clear sea glass eyes. There were words, vast oceans of words to describe and detail the immense wave of emotion cresting over them both, but in the end, none needed to be spoken. They passed silently between them, recognised and understood and deeply, irrevocably cherished._

“Fuck… you...” John grits out between furious strokes. “Not you… never you. It’s always… _always_... been me… _ME!_ ” His words and pace quicken as his anger builds, molten and dangerous. His vision’s gone blurry at the edges but he doesn’t notice, his entire world is focussed down to the words before him and the throbbing heat in his grip.

 _After a small eternity, Sherlock gently stroked his palms down Mary’s arms, slipped his hands into hers, twined their fingers together. With a crooked smile, he guided their interlaced hands back to the bed, pulling Mary down over him again._  

_“Fuck me into the mattress,” he purred. “Make me yours.”_

_Mary sucked in a deep breath. “Say that again.”_

_“Yours, Mary, I’m yours.”_

_“Mine.”_

“MINE!” John roars, eyes screwed shut against the atrocity on his screen. Behind closed lids, he sees Sherlock beneath him, writhing and gasping as John pounds into his tight, wet heat. His legs are wrapped around John’s waist and he’s bucking up to meet each thrust, their hands interlaced and eyes locked, completely in sync. Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes go wide, a breathy “John!” escapes his lips, and he’s shuddering and spasming around John’s cock, coming completely untouched.

“Fuck!” Hot come spurts over John’s hand, fast and unexpected. He squeezes tight, trying to hold back the flow, but it spills over his fingers, an unstoppable force, and he just tries to steady himself through the aftershocks. Christ, but that's intense. There are brilliant flashes of gold sparking behind his eyes and tremors wracking his body that would give a seismologist pause. There's pleasure, yes, but it's a blazing, searing sort of euphoria, and he's not certain that the jerking of his limbs aren't a sign of some troubling neurological condition. Crossed-wires, his brain helpfully echoes through the flood of conflicting sensation.

When he's able to feel his toes again, he blinks his eyes open and blearily stares at the screen.

_It didn’t take long. This was so long overdue, and they were so overcome — with emotion and arousal and sheer, desperate need — that after a few hard thrusts and grinds they were both already on the brink. Sherlock’s legs were shaking and his abdominals were twitching and his lips were white with the effort of holding back._

_“It’s okay, Sherlock,” she panted. “I’m right there too. You can let go.”_

_“Together?” he whispered, and it was so achingly sweet, she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes._

_“Always.”_

_Together, they shattered, fell apart into sharp shards of blinding pleasure; together they flared and burned in hot white bliss; and together they came back, reassembled, gasping and limp but still united. They would always be united. Their lips found one another, pressed weakly against their mate, sharing their breath and sealing their love, forever._

_  
_

* * *

_Notes:_

_Thanks for reading!!! If you enjoy my OTP as much as I do (LOL like that’s even possible!) please leave kudos and comments on my fics!!!!!!!! XOXOXO LOVE YOU GUYS LIKE SHERLOCK LOVES MARY!!!!!_

He’s woozy. No, nauseous, really. He can’t remember the last time he came that hard, but even back in his uni days he only felt tingly and numb, lightheaded at most. He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this after coming, and he has to swallow against a dry mouth to keep down the remnants of his supper. Dear God, he feels awful.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath in through his nose, releases it through pursed lips. His hand feels cold, uncomfortably sticky. He's a bit afraid to check the couch. Right. In a moment, he’ll get up, clean off his hand and his prick and do his best to salvage the upholstery, but first things first.

He forces his eyes open, slides his right hand over the trackpad (still blessedly free of sweat and semen), and closes the window with a decisive click. Almost on autopilot, he navigates to his history and clears the cache, trying not to remember the daily habit he'd developed during his time at Baker Street, the muscle memory still fresh in his practised movements.

One last thing.

With a sigh, he opens the browser again and clicks on the bookmark for his blog. He goes to the most recent post editor and deletes the photo montage video link. It's for the best, really. No need to have his private life out in the public eye. He remembers all too well how that went _last_ time. He saves and is about to shut down when a message alert pops up in the corner of the screen. With no small amount of trepidation, he opens the message. He already knows who it's from, and that makes it even worse.

_it’s for the best. wouldn't want anyone to get ideas. hope that wasn't too **hard** for you._

John shudders. Creepy doesn't begin to describe the feeling of seeing his own thoughts parroted back at him, seconds after they flashed through his head. The smug arsehole must've had the message typed and ready to send the moment John updated his blog; it had been instantaneous. His hand hovers over the keyboard as he considers pecking out a snide reply, but in the end, he simply deletes the message and closes his laptop. Surely everything he might say has already crossed the bastard’s mind, and he probably has a whole slew of responses queued up, ready to fire back. Well, John won't give him the satisfaction.

And at any rate, he's got to get himself sorted, clean up this mess. Mary will be home soon.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!


End file.
